I spent an hour or so,
crafting a letter that I'll probably,
never see as good enough for you,
to read.
But the words are genuine,
and my hands ache from writing,
such painful truths.
I await the day I can see you patiently,
though I await the day of your return,
a little less so.
One cannot wait with hands folded,
for the return of their mother,
without once saying,
the wait is too long.

May is too far away.